


Old Quarrels

by Beanwhile



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Affection, Deleted Scenes, Family Reunions, Gen, Hugs, Reminiscing, extras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4859417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beanwhile/pseuds/Beanwhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the morning before the negotiations start, Cenred thinks about going home. His father has something important to discuss with him, and they go for a walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Quarrels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aconite (aconite_fic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aconite_fic/gifts).



> A deleted-scene sort of fic taking place right before the final part of Take Shelter. bimordred did all the justice not only to Cenred, but to my OCs Wulfar and Ermengild as well, so I literally sat down to write fic of her fic. Take Shelter is an amazing work and I urge you to go and read it if you haven't. 
> 
> Also, many thanks to [tumblr user hereticality](http://www.hereticality.tumblr.com) who, as per usual, sat down to beta for me!

Cenred stood still and watched his mother as she went to look for Mordred. The warmth of her lips lingered on his cheeks. Being smothered in public had embarrassed him in the past, at least prior to going to Tir Mor. I hope she hasn’t changed, Cenred caught himself thinking, and then felt immediately embarrassed, and tried to stomp on the thought. He longed for home: to sneak into the stables and take one of his father’s horses, race Lot to the meadows and back before it was time for dinner; missed smallest details, like the colours of the flags around the castle. Tir Mor had been endlessly kind to him—but it wasn’t Essetir. He felt irked and out of place. When he had been a child he would’ve gotten what he wanted just by being obstinate enough. Now, there was nothing that could grant his wish so fast.

A hand ran over his back and patted his shoulder blade.

“Mordred will spoil your mother with all this druid speech,” his father said. His hand did not linger as it had used to. Wulfar did not mind showing affection: in the privacy of their home. Back in Essetir, his father would’ve hugged him, would’ve pulled his hair with his other hand on a dagger, threatening to cut the locks on the spot. Not here though, where they had to maintain a certain image, not when the future of Albion was spread thin on the table. Cenred felt only further irked. Personally, he thought Uther’s death had greatly improved the quality of life, but had the sense not to mention it around the Queen and her brothers. Certainly not around Arthur, whose morals tended to perch atop the highest tower and hale from there.

 “You’ve been here for a while now. Walk me through the castle grounds?” his father suggested. Cenred looked away. Wulfar’s suggestions always had a veil of command. Besides, a walk was his father’s way of hinting he had something very important to discuss: Cenred had to obey anyway. He reached out to put his hand on his father’s shoulder, but quickly changed his mind. He stretched instead, and gestured to his father to follow him. It didn’t hurt to play nice, at least until he heard what his father had to say.

They went deeper and deeper into the castle but Wulfar did not offer conversation, and so neither did Cenred. There were lots of servants running around, tending to the extra manifold of guests. Cenred could only think the matter his father wanted to discuss was too sensitive for the castle itself. He could lead him to the training grounds, but it didn’t mean they had to take the shortest route. His father was being very polite, listening to what Cenred was telling him, and commenting on the structure as if, for once, a walk around had been all he had had in mind, but Cenred knew his father too well. He was going to make his father wait for his talk.

After deeming it enough—Wulfar had let Cenred talk for quite a while—Cenred took a turn to the area behind the castle. Luckily, there was no one there. No window was low enough to let curious ears eavesdrop on them, and the surrounding gravel would immediately alert them to approaching presence. His father surveyed the area and gave his son a nod.

For some time they stood there, backs against the wall, looking around. Neither talked nor moved. Cenred wondered if they were having the same thought: that both were waiting for the other to break the silence. His father did not like wasting time, but it was equally possible that he was testing his son.

“Are you coming back to Essetir after all this?” Wulfar asked. Cenred turned his head and saw that his father was looking at him.

“Do you deem me worthy?” he asked. It hadn’t sounded so challenging in his head, and he hurried to elaborate. “I would like to hear it from you, that you want me back. I won’t return home only to rekindle old quarrels.”

 “You think you’ve outgrown the need to argue, then?” Wulfar challenged him back.

 “I’d like to think we _both_ have,” Cenred stressed. His irritation grew. He was quickly remembering why he had left Essetir at the first suggestion of it. Maybe he didn’t want to go back after all.

He remembered how he had felt back in the yard while looking at his mother. He did not like such an overwhelming feeling. He didn’t think of himself _capable_ of very deep emotions, not when sober at least.

To his surprise, Wulfar nodded. “You left the castle a child, but your absence was… noticeable.”

“You still had Lot around,” Cenred pointed out.

“Lot doesn’t need his character tempered.” Wulfar frowned. He looked somewhat peeved that his younger son was growing up good, almost suspiciously so. “He gets under the skin of every council member as soon as he enters the room. He also gives the impression we’re not on very good terms, and I’ve yet to see what to make of that.”

Cenred wanted to point out the tragedy of The Good King Wulfar getting along with everyone but his own sons; but the conversation was, unfortunately, too serious. “I was asking if you were considering him as the likely heir.”

 “I’m too young to consider heirs, my son,” Wulfar huffed, and shook his head. His eyes crinkled in a smile.

“Liar,” Cenred countered. He bowed his head and kissed his father’s temple. Wulfar scrunched up his face, but did not shy away from the affection. He put an arm around Cenred’s waist with one swift and confident move. He pulled Cenred in, and rubbed his forehead against Cenred’s shoulder, letting out a groan.

Without thinking, Cenred turned to his father and wrapped his hands around him, and buried his nose in his father’s hair. Wulfar’s armour was hard and cool against Cenred’s thin leather clothing, but the intensity of his father’s grip responded in kind, and that was all that mattered. Cenred couldn’t believe that all his father had wanted had been for them to simply _talk_. Wulfar’s hair tickled Cenred’s nose, and the smell was so sweet, so painfully familiar, that he couldn’t possibly let go. He remembered his childhood again: his father would often put him on his shoulders and take him around on small adventures or business around the castle. Cenred would hide his face in his father’s hair to shield it from the low branches of the trees if they ventured into the forest. He pressed his lips against the unruly tufts and in his hands his father shivered. For a while they stood like that, each revelling in the embrace of the other, neither pulling away, neither letting go.

“I missed you, Father,” Cenred whispered.

 “Come home, my son,” Wulfar suggested, the way he suggested everything, with the hint of an order. Cenred’s heart swelled.

 “I will.”


End file.
